In which a wildly out of his depth Richard does a burglary in South East London, gets caught, but talks himself out of it.
I have been debating whether to share this tale as it is most unsavoury, and merely recalling it fills me a not inconsiderable amount of distress, it was truly not good.

In the early 90s an 18 year old middle class Richard is selling small quantities of hashish to fund his own consumption and the odd beer. I was doing this for an older fellow (the son of diplomats, unrelated and pointless fact fans) with some quiet success for a while, when through friends I met a chap who could sort out large numbers of Es; this being the golden years of rave there was much to be made and my hash supplier decided to invest in 100. I had a couple of merry nights out with the supplier in London, he was a right ‘geezer’ but highly entertaining company. I stayed at his bedsit in Orpington once or twice after fun-packed nights out sampling these tablets.

Unfortunately he was also a little scrote, and promptly vanished with the money. No pills, hash man v cross and broke. He made me take him to where this chap lived in the hope of catching him there, I suppose. And this is where it gets really fucked up. I noticed an open window in this chap’s building and was able to climb in, the hash man waiting in a car park opposite. The room was clearly deserted so I began to fill a suitcase with the meagre belongings of this fellow (I got a great Frankie Bones mixtape out of it). As I was doing this, the door opened and to - my horror - the landlord came in, with a prospective new tenant for the room. I nearly vomited with fear – but on the spur of the moment blurted out some bullshit that the chap had left me in his room and had fucked off, owing me money. Incredibly, the chap bought it and let me fill the case and go.

The look on my chum’s face as I walked out the front door shaking the landlord’s hand was fucking priceless. The truly sordid additional twist on this horrible tale is that not two minutes before the landlord came in I had been caught short and, with no other option, had crapped in the sink.

This is 100% true and I have never told anyone before except my brother.

When I was at primary school, an emergency assembly was called one day.
In hushed, shocked tones the headmistress explained why we were there. A ghastly yet inexplicable discovery had been made, not unlike a modern day Marie Celeste.

For you see, as we were told, that day a shoe had been found in the urinals of the boys' lavatory. And inside this abandoned garment was...'A POO'.

Surely all that was needed to uncover the identity of this faecal terrorist was to inspect the feet of the assembled throng: find a one-shoed boy and you had your phantom crapper bang to rights.

But this is where the mystery deepened, for you see there was no mono-shod logger to be found. The perfect crime. To this day only our excremental Banksy himself knows his identity.

'Gerroverere you fuggin' cunt!'
Mark King was drunk. Again. The Butlin's gig had gone down a storm and as usual Mark was celebrating post-gig with a couple of bottles of Tesco Finest Sauv Blanc, his 'weapon of choice'. Lindup was sitting nervously by the door, dreading the inevitable.

'They like you best, Mike, you fuggin' wanker. Why???' he wailed plaintively. 'What have you got that I haven't?' A salty tear ran down Mark's cruelly-disfigured visage. 'I, I d-don't know, Mark' stammered The Lindonator. He knew what was coming next. 'I'll fuggin' show *you* popular!', slurred Mark, fumbling with his belt. 'Please Mark, not again' begged Lindski-1. 'Here I come!!!' bellowed Mark, and he span round unevenly, spread his pockmarked arse cheeks and let rip a tumultous, reeking shart all over Lindow Man's terrified face and shoulders.